


He's Allowed to be Mad This Time

by crookedcig



Category: Avengers (Comics), Iron Man (Comic), Iron Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 00:57:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2672909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedcig/pseuds/crookedcig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don't always process sorrow and anger in a healthy way.  In the face of the verdict not to indict Mike Brown's murderer on 24th November 2014, this settled in the back of my skull and demanded to be written, for my own health if for nothing else.</p><p>How would Rhodey react to seeing young black men, children really, murdered across the country he's spent his entire life defending?</p>
            </blockquote>





	He's Allowed to be Mad This Time

The TV wasn’t even on, when it happened.

It was like they were all afraid to be the one to bring the news in for real, to break the bubble of quiet that had settled over them as if they were protected from what was going on.

They’d retreated, all of them, in their own ways.  Some of them had retreated to other homes, other families and circles of support.  But some of them had ended up in New York, and Tony had reminded all of them that the tower was theirs too, now.  Some of them even brought friends, and that’s how the four of them found themselves sitting on the couch with the TV off and tension rising and rising like a tsunami, the beat of the heartland sending waves that crashed across them despite the fact that they weren’t watching the news.

Rhodey’d had his phone out, that little crinkle between his brow and his chin tucked against his chest.  Hell, they all had something in their hands; Steve’s expression flickered between fury and resignation in abortive little fits, Sam’s eyes looks soft and sorry and sad.  Tony had been focusing on doing something clever to the Patriot armor because that was the only way he could cope with the waiting for news that they already knew was going to come.  Waiting to hear that a grand jury had let a black boy’s murderer go unpunished.

When they did, in an instant Rhodey was on his feet, stalking away from the group with shoulders so tight with tension Tony worried a bit for his shirt.  The engineer was up a moment later, intending on going after his friend, but a quick glance from Steve had him plopping back onto the couch, indignant at the unjustness of the fact that the big blond could do that to him.  A crash brought all their eyes around to the door that Rhodey had disappeared through, and Tony jerked up again, prepared to tell Rogers to fuck the fuck off so he could go comfort his oldest friend.

But then there was another crash.  And a third.  And the sound of a punching bag getting much rougher treatment than usual, and Tony sank back down to his seat, staring as if willpower alone could give him x-ray vision so he could see what Rhodey was doing through the walls.

In twenty years, Tony’d never seen this.  In twenty years, the worst he’d gotten was softness as Rhodey became angry, quiet disappointment and sorry eyes.  Even when faced with people who would happily kill everything he loved, Rhodey was solid and strong and didn’t blow up, he calculated.  He was a fucking soldier, he did his job and he protected people and his keel never hinted at being anything but even and on target.

At least now the next time Bruce tried to convince him that his anger was the most dangerous thing, Tony had every right to laugh in his face because Rhodey’s anger was pants-shittingly terrifying.  It sounded like he was taking the building down with his bare hands.

“He’s allowed to take his turn.”  It was Sam that finally spoke, bringing Tony’s attention back around.  It was spooky, the mind reading thing he did.  Steve had warned him, and he hadn’t quite believed it, but Sam was better at reading people than he had any right to be and he’d shut down Tony’s fear and need to _fix_  on Rhodey's behalf with one simple statement.  “He keeps it together for our sake, and yours. He’s allowed to be mad this time.”  Viciousness flashed in those soft, sad eyes, certain in the power of his rage, insisting that a difference would be made now and he would be the one to make it regardless of who tried to hold him back.  All of a sudden, between one heartbeat and the next, Tony understood Sam Wilson, and the loyalty he’d earned from both Steven and Rhodey.

The last crash was louder than the first had been, and there was a streak across the sky where the Iron Patriot had been seconds ago, contrails and repulsor heat marking his path.  Tony wondered, briefly, if he was going to go to T’Challa.  It would make sense, finding peace in a place where no one would feel justified in killing him because of the color of his skin.  Maybe he’d just go home to Roberta, find solace in the quiet of his childhood.

But his childhood had never been quiet.  From day one, he’d had to fight.  Roberta had been forced to give her son “the talk.”  Even when he did everything right (college, military, no laws broken, no ebonics spoken) even when he did everything right he’d still had to wake up every day knowing the raw truth of the life he couldn’t have, the life no black man could have in the country he’d spent his entire life working for.  Fighting to defend.  So maybe Wakanda was the best place for him and his anger right now.  Tony couldn't blame him.

It was Sam that finally turned on the TV, sliding to his feet and patting Steve’s shoulder affectionately.

“I’m taking one of your planes, rich boy.”  Tony nodded without really hearing, waving his hand vaguely and staring at the tablet he’d been fooling around with before Rhodey left.  A few minutes later, Steve was nudging him none-too-gently, pushing hard at his shoulder and flicking his eyes to the TV.

Wall to wall coverage of Ferguson.  Fire and guns and chanting and police and National fucking Guard and for a moment Tony was reeling back to New York, back to his house falling into the ocean, back to Afghanistan.  Getting it all back under control, he shot Steve a glare that would have peeled paint, scowling at the other man until he saw that his attention was still on the screen.

Because there was Rhodey.  Guns down, hands up, standing at the front of the protestors was the most visible, recognizable weapon in the US Air Force’s arsenal, with his mask up and the bulk of his armor protecting the people behind him.  The only time his hands came down was to lob tear gas canisters back where they’d come from, to shelter those around him more effectively.  Tony was sure it would be lost on people, but they should have been far more afraid of the look in Rhodey's eyes than the suit.  Those eyes said he was staying.  Those eyes said he was angry.

“Sam’ll be there in a few hours.”  Sliding to his feet, Steve set his hands on his hips and considered the screen for a few more moments before glancing at Tony.

“Let’s go be sidekicks.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a person of color, and I may have gotten something wrong here. I'll own up to that right now.


End file.
